


Orange Colored Sky

by arabybizarre



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fallout AU, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Nuclear War, Robots, cophine - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:52:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5728627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabybizarre/pseuds/arabybizarre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2077, the bombs fell.<br/>In 2287, Cosima Niehaus woke from cryo-sleep, haunted by memories of her pre-war life and the mysterious kidnapping of her sister and niece.<br/>In 2288, the trail has gone cold, and Cosima is struggling to find some semblance of normalcy--which might be attainable, if not for the appearance of Dr. Delphine Cormier.</p>
<p>Fallout 4 AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Easy Living

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all. If you're reading this, thanks! The plot will include canon elements from the game, but will not follow the main story line. I'll try and make sure Fallout specific elements are explained so it's easy to follow even if you haven't played.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

_October 23rd_ _, 2077_

 

Before the bombs, I dreamt of much simpler things.

It's ironic, in a way. While we'd been granted a more complex civilization then—stunning technological advancements matched only by the most grandiose of creature comforts—things had been unfathomably humbler. If you'd been hungry, for example, you could easily take a trip to the market, or head down to the nearest greasy spoon. If you'd worked up a sweat on a sweltering July afternoon, you could take a dip in the nearest watering hole, without fear of the sickness. Hell, if you'd wanted to _live_ , period, you'd need not worry that the very Earth itself was trying to poison you.

Simpler, indeed.

At night, I'd dream of comic book heroes, of pretty faces, and clear skies. I'd hear music, back when it was new, back when it wasn't a luxury. I'd dream of a future—successful, exciting, vivid—that had seemed not only a certainty, but my right, as an educated, hard-working citizen of the commonwealth. Dreaming was easy then, when I rarely had to worry what my tomorrows would hold, let alone if they would arrive at all.

The day the bombs fell, I dreamt of the sea. I dreamt of the Cape Cod summers of my youth. Rich, rolling waves crashing along the peninsula; the other children howling with laughter. My twin sister's back, in her brightly patterned one-piece, as she ran boldly, headlong into the tide. And my own hands, carefully tending to the bucket of washed-up sea creatures I'd collected that morning.

Too soon, I woke to the fussing, hungry cries of my eight-month-old niece permeating my bedroom wall, and swore that the next summer, after I'd completed my doctorate, I would take her there, to Cape Cod. Sarah and I could take a long weekend, rent some cheap, kitschy motel room, and take her to the sea for the first time. If her father, Cal, wanted to join us, I wouldn't argue; but as I woke, that deep blue still visible in my sleep-fogged brain, it seemed important that Sarah and I, together, took her there.

That was months away, however, and Kira was clearly hungry _now._ Not yet fully conscious, I rose unsteadily with a stretch, my upper back popping satisfactorily. I grabbed my glasses from the nightstand and stepped into the hall.

"Sarah?" I called, wondering why she hadn't come to tend to Kira herself. The prefab was small, and from the doorway of my bedroom, I could see our Mister Handy, Codsworth, hovering over the stovetop, one of his mechanical arms tending to the morning's breakfast, while another managed the coffee maker. Across the hall, Sarah's door was open; the room, however was empty, the bed left unmade. I might have dwelled on it longer had Kira's cries not grown suddenly more persistent.

"All right, all right," I assured her, walking into the adjacent nursery. "You sure know how to get my attention, don't you, Monkey?" As I leaned over the crib, her boo-boo lip was in full-swing. It was stunning how short of a time it had taken her to master that one. Even then, I was convinced she was a genius.

Chuckling, I lifted her onto my chest, bouncing her lightly to calm her fussing, while peppering the crown of her head with tiny kisses. I had not borne that child, but she was still my pride and joy. "You're hungry, aren't you? I don't know where Mommy got off to, but Auntie Cosima is going to take care of you."

As I walked her down the hall, I could see Codsworth already preparing a bottle. "Good morning, Miss Cosima," he called, his robotic voice oddly human in his trademark exuberance. "I am warming Miss Kira's bottle as we speak!"

"Thanks, Codsworth." I'd stopped near the kitchen table to reposition Kira on my hip. She had calmed, but was being grumpier than usual. Typically, she was a joy in the mornings—more so than myself, actually. "Where is Sarah?"

"She went for a walk. Mr. Morrison needed to speak with her."

" _Oh._ " That was as much explanation as I needed. Sarah and Cal's relationships had never been steady, but in the past few months, they had really been putting forth a concerted effort to be a "family". This effort had been working, on and off; but a few days before, they'd had another of their explosive spats. I simply assumed they would work through it. Or, at least, I hoped. I quite liked Cal; however, I also knew just how difficult my sister could be.

Between the two of us, Sarah had always been the more spirited, the more fiery. Or, as our parents had said many, many times, more _trouble._ Growing up, many had misguidedly thought her to be crass, or belligerent. Those many people, however, simply could not see what I saw, which was the depth to which Sarah's love ran. She was a protector. Nothing frightened her more than the thought of any harm coming to her loved ones. It made her want to fight.

It made her enlist in the army, as soon as she was of age. The Resource Wars had been raging for sixteen long years at that point, with the Anchorage Reclamation beginning shortly after our seventeenth birthday. The Chinese invasion of Alaska had hit the States hard, and enlistment propaganda was practically being force-fed to every able-bodied citizen before they'd even finished high school. It was difficult to ignore. Many, like Sarah, had dropped out the day they turned eighteen. Others, like me, had stayed as far away from the war as possible.

I'd never been a fighter—couldn't imagine myself ever being one. Back then, I didn't even know how to properly hold a gun. But back then, I didn't have any need to. The war was raging, yes, but not in my front yard. Not on the campus of Boston College, where I'd gone on to earn my degrees in biology. I could afford to pretend, at that time.

It's truly alarming, just how quickly you can cut your teeth though, when there's no time left for pretending. And on that morning—the morning the bombs fell—my pretending hours—no, my pretending _minutes_ —were numbered.

"She had hoped to be home before Miss Kira woke," Codsworth continued, pouring a cup of coffee for me.

I waved him off. "I'm sure." A Vault-Tec leaflet sitting on the kitchen table had caught my eye. Only a week before, one of the Vault-Tec representatives had come to speak with Sarah. Her military service had guaranteed the three of us refuge in Vault 111, located just up the hill from our home in Sanctuary, not even a quarter mile away. Of course, that refuge would only be necessary if the bombs fell. And at that moment, not an hour before they did, I thought the concept laughable.

Such breakable creatures we are. So impervious we feel. At that hour, the warheads were already pointed, fingers already poised over the detonators. Had you shown me proof, I likely would not have believed it.

"I'm sure she'll be back soon. But I don't think Kira wants to wait."

"Of course not," he bellowed, with a mechanical laugh. "Here you go, Ma'am."

I accepted the cup of coffee Codsworth offered me, thanking him with a nod. I managed to get in a single sip before Kira began grabbing. "Not for you. Yours is next," I promised her, setting my mug down on top of the Vault-Tec leaflet. Thankfully, he handed me the bottle just a moment later. I moved into the living room, settling on the couch as I gave Kira her breakfast.

The television was already on, tuned in to the morning news. Sarah had likely been watching before she'd left. The day's weather report was promising sunshine, blue skies, pleasant autumn temperatures—the perfect October day, one might say. Disinterested, I changed the channel until I found a children's program. Kira was still too young to comprehend, but I thought the added stimulation might calm her further.

"Do you want the paper, Miss?" Codsworth asked, holding up the _Boston Bugle_ sitting on the kitchen island.

"No, thanks," I replied, focused on watching Kira eat. She watched me, too, eyes drooping slightly in satisfaction beneath her long eyelashes. "I already know what's in there—same old stuff." Somber news of "rising tensions" across the globe had plagued the front page for years now. I could only read the same story so many times before its luster began to wear.

"Breakfast will be ready in five minutes."

"That's fine. As long as the queen eats first," I cooed. Kira smiled, as if she could sense my sarcasm. I couldn't help but snort. With a yawn, I tipped the bottle further for her, and allowed my eyes to drift shut.

They snapped open in tandem with the front door. It hit the wall as both Sarah and Cal strode in, eyes wild, mid-conversation.

"… already a go-bag in the bedroom closet."

"I know," Cal said. He didn't glance at me or Kira, sprinting immediately towards the bedroom.

"Welcome, Mum, Mr. Morrison," Codsworth began, ignored.

Before I could get a word in, Sarah turned to me. "Cos, we've got to go."

Sensing her urgency, and feeling immediately frantic myself at the sight of it, I stood, still clutching Kira. "What's going on?"

Sarah looked down at her daughter, then back up at me, a glimmer of fear passing through her eyes before turning abruptly stony with determination. "Turn on the news. I need to grab a few things."

She ran down the hall as quickly as she'd entered, Codsworth flitting about and calling after her. I couldn't hear him. I couldn't hear Sarah and Cal in the bedroom. I was flabbergasted, truly. After a moment's hesitation, I picked up the remote, flipping back to the morning news.

"… _Followed by flashes—blinding flashes. Sounds of explosions. We're, uh, trying to get confirmation… we seem to have lost contact with out affiliate stations. We… we do have coming in… that's, uhm, confirmed reports—I repeat—confirmed reports of nuclear detonations in New York and Pennsylvania."_ At this moment, the newscaster broke, head dropping into his hand. _"My God,"_ he whispered, the transmission breaking just a second later.

I was too stunned to move, to even think, until Sarah and Cal came roaring back into the living room, mooring me to our crumbling Sanctuary.

"We have to move," she ordered.

Cal came over to retrieve his daughter, "I'll take her. You just take one of these bags and follow Sarah."

Outside, the sirens had started. I could hear them now. Dumbly, all I could think to say was, "But she hasn't finished her bottle yet."

"Cos!" Sarah was out the door already, waving me forward. Cal placed a backpack in my hands, nodding to me reassuringly. I looked back at Codsworth, at the home that we shared.

This is the point when I stopped having choices.

I ran then, because I had to. It was a short jog to vault 111 from our home; however it was made difficult by the number of other bodies we had to contend with. My last true memory of Sanctuary that day is looking over my shoulder, seeing a tank roll up the street as we trampled across the bridge that would lead us out of town.

It was pandemonium at the gates. I stood among the mass—so many voices hollering in fear and anger, the sound of so many sobs piercing my ears. A gunshot rang out as we approached—a soldier attempting to maintain order. We were pushed and we were grabbed. Cal elbowed them roughly, holding Kira tightly to his chest, beneath his jacket.

Sarah took hold of my hand, the same way she would whenever we'd entered crowds as children. "Hold on to me," she said, leaving out the implied, _so I don't lose you._ I knew what she meant.

I thought we'd be trampled before we made our way past the gate, but we were ushered through almost as soon as Sarah and Cal could show their military IDs. We were meant to be there. Most of the other civilians, I realized, were not. This was merely their last, desperate ditch at safety before the mushroom cloud rose up, the radiation swallowing them whole.

Even as we were guided onto the vault platform, looking out over our corner of the commonwealth from that lofty perch, it still had not dawned on me what was to come. The weatherman had called for blue skies and sunshine, and that is what we'd woken to, as far as the eye could see.

"It's perfect," I whispered, standing there. Beside me, Sarah looked over. She'd been leaning on Cal, checking beneath his coat to see that Kira was all right. She still hadn't let go of my hand.

"What?" she asked. I opened my mouth to answer, but was silenced by the strange, blinding flash of light that consumed the commonwealth.

In the distance, a sickly green-yellow plume belched into the atmosphere. The Earth rumbled.

There were screams. "Get down," Cal shouted, hitting the floor. At a painful pace—seeming too slow for the dust that raced across the ground towards Sanctuary—the platform had begun to lower.

"Cover your head," Sarah instructed, pulling me into a huddle with her and Cal.

As the Vault-Tec doors closed above, I looked up, taking in my last memory of life as I knew it: perfect blue skies, turning orange.

* * *

Next came the cryo-pods.

I'm not sure what I'd been expecting. A few days to get acclimated, maybe—a week would have been nice. I assumed we'd be put on ice at some point. All the literature leading up to this day had explained that in the event of a fallout, humans would be unable to return to the surface for at least twenty years. Until that time, the ecosystem would be tremendously fragile, to the point of volatility. Our bodies would be unable to adapt.

There's no way they could've fed us for twenty years. There were just too many mouths. Instead, we would have to sleep.

But I had thought—hoped, in those precious few moments we'd had as they'd corralled us into 111, taking names, issuing our vault suits—that they would at least allow us the time to process what had happened. Many of us, including me, were visibly in shock.

Processing would have to come later, however. It was only a number of hours before we were led to the stasis chambers, and assigned our pods. My family was the last in line, led to the end of the corridor. Sarah was given the end cryo pod, Kira with her; and Cal was given the pod next to them. I was across from Sarah.

As the operator closed my door, and I settled back into the padding of the pod, I could have sobbed. I was stricken with a sudden panic—the weight of potentially years of empty time—a motionless, unconscious void—bearing down upon me. My heart seized, and I lost my breath. I peered through the porthole, glancing at my sister and niece, and opened my mouth, as if they could hear me. As if it mattered.

I wanted to say, _"I love you."_ I wanted to say, _"I'll see you soon."_

But before I could, Sarah smiled. With the free hand that wasn't holding Kira, she lifted her fingertips lightly to the glass before giving me a thumbs-up.

I laughed, my eyes brimming over with tears. In our childhood, the thumbs-up, though it might seem like such a commonplace gesture, had become something of a joke for us. Our grandfather always told us that, if the bombs dropped, it would be the easiest, most surefire way to tell if you were safe.

As the mushroom cloud rises, you'd extend your arm, squint your eye, and hold up your thumb. If the cloud vanished, you were safe. The distance was too great. The radiation could not reach you. But if the cloud was still visible… well. You'd better run like hell.

As the freeze initiated, I held up my thumb to mirror hers, squinting my eye.

Sarah remained, smiling; and in her arms, Kira had vanished.

* * *

_Date Unknown_

 

The Hypnic Jerk.

You've probably experienced it. You're half asleep, perhaps even stumbling into the first vestiges of a dream. The world has grown hazy and bright. You're leaving your body.

But something pulls you back, hard.

It's like falling. Your heart stops, body jerking.

Waking up from cryo, the first time, was like that. Probably because I wasn't supposed to wake up at all.

When I first stumbled out of the vault, I told myself that it had been an error in the computer system—some bug in the technology that caused a hiccup in slumber. For a brief moment, the fog lifted. I was jerked back to life, though only partially. Not enough to escape. Not enough to even raise my voice. Just enough to see.

Through the porthole, I watched as Sarah, too, arose from the deep freeze, her eyes drifting lazily open. Beside her, Cal's pod was already empty. Our gazes met for a single second before they entered—a bald, badly scarred man in a leather jacket, followed by three figures dressed head to toe in white, their faces covered. Shouting over his shoulder, he pointed at Sarah's pod.

I noticed the gun in his hand. My barely woken heart stuttered with alarm.

One of the white-clothed figured fiddled with the terminal, and the pod cracked open, like an egg. Out of instinct, Sarah clutched Kira protectively, shrinking away from the others. She was weak, I think. I know I was.

When the man reached for her—for Kira, specifically—we both rebelled. I opened my mouth to shout, but no words came out. I tried lifting my arms, but they were too numb. Sarah kicked, and the man pointed his gun, shouting. He reached for Kira, and Sarah kicked again, prompting the others to crowd in, to pin her back into the pod. With little struggle, they pried Kira from her feeble arms, the man then hitting Sarah in the temple with his gun. Her body slouched.

Finally, I had enough strength in my arms to raise them. Making small, weak fists, I beat against the glass, hollering my garbled protest. The man turned to my pod suddenly, Kira held awkwardly in his arms. There was both curiosity and surprise in his gaze. Our eyes met, and I shouted again, my voice a bit firmer this time. Shaking his head, he barked an order to one of the others.

Rapidly, the fog descended again. That was when my genius, Kira, vanished for the second time.


	2. Crawl Out Through the Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rather expository chapter. Mainly because, as I said, I didn't intend on following the game's plot; but I also didn't want to gloss over those elements for any readers who aren't familiar. So, this short part is just to set the stage for the rest of the story (and since it IS short, the next chapter will be up in the next couple days).
> 
> Now, let's get this established so we can get to the action ; )

_October, 2287_

 

For 210 years, I slept, but did not dream.

Time ceased in cryo. Between the falling of the bombs, Sarah and Kira's disappearance, and my final waking, there were but a few, dark blips—spots of ink on an otherwise blank page. How it felt, stumbling from my pod in a panic, navigating my way out of the vault with weak knees and a mind fogged in utter disbelief, it had seemed to me only a matter of hours. As I encountered my first radiation-burgeoned roaches, my disgusted cries echoing through the corridors of 111, I could still smell the coffee Codsworth had placed in my hands over two centuries ago.

I had no concept of the passage of time. Not until I'd stumbled upon a timestamped computer terminal and searched through the cryo-release logs. Even then, I'd assumed there had been some sort of error. There was no possible way that I could've been asleep for _200 years._ The world, I realized, my shock quickly transforming to horror as I stared slack-jawed at the terminal screen, would be so different.

I was half right about that.

As I fled the vault, running down the hill towards Sanctuary, it was not my home. Decrepit, dusty, polluted—it was an unimaginable portrait of destruction. Yet buried beneath the refuse, I could see the vestiges of my past lingering: the neighbor's car still sitting in the driveway; pink, plastic flamingoes protruding from the flowerbeds lining the front of the house; a _Boston Bugle_ sitting on the front step, unread. I stepped tentatively up the walkway to the home I'd shared with my sister and niece, heart hammering in my chest. The door was ajar. To my great surprise, before I'd even plucked up the courage to enter, a fully operational Codsworth came hovering out over the threshold, as jovial and unperturbed as ever.

For as often as I'd made fun of that boisterous robot in my first life—my life before the bombs—I couldn't help the tears that sprung to my eyes at the sight of him.

So, some things changed, sure. But others just got much, much older.

The first couple of days were the hardest. I holed up in our old home, in such shock that I could do nothing but lie on my filthy old mattress, attempting to breathe through the panic. I had to remind myself that I was not dreaming—this was not a nightmare—I would not wake to a better world. The apocalypse was very real. It had come, but it had also gone; and inside of the ruin, a new world had been born. A paltry shadow of a world, yes, compared to what we'd once had. But it was life, nonetheless. And I was living it.

Sarah and Kira were, too, I knew. Somewhere. They were living, or (I refused to think it) they _had_ been. And no matter the outcome, I needed to know where they'd gone. I needed to know who'd taken them.

I had no choice but to act. I travelled east, towards Concord, scouting for food and supplies. I'd neglected my body's need for sustenance for far too long, and was ravenous with hunger. I was equipped only with what I'd taken from 111—my original vault suit and a 10mm pistol.

Here I had my first altercation with Raiders—the brutish, ragtag scavengers that plague the wasteland. I was so weak then, so bad with a pistol I likely would have died. Had it not been for Newton, that is.

I've never been the type of woman who was looking for a knight in shining armor, but I swear, when I saw that mangy dog leap out of the trees, locking his jaw around the ankle of the raider who'd lifted his rifle to my eye, I'd found mine. And I'd never been so damn grateful in my entire life.

Looking back now, it's funny to think I found Newton the very same day that I found Siobhan. When I heard her distress call echoing from the speakers of the Museum of Freedom, I knew I couldn't turn her away. Quite literally, actually. There was a Deathclaw prowling the streets of Concord that evening, and even with Newton at my side and the extra ammo I'd looted from the Raiders in my pocket, remaining outside would have been a death sentence.

Siobhan was the leader of a small civilian militia known as the Minutemen. In the post-world, they'd been a beacon of hope, offering assistance and refuge to those who could not fend for themselves. The world after the bombs was lawless. Keeping your head down and hoping no one noticed you wasn't an option. Not everybody was suited to deal with that. Lucky for them, the Minutemen had been there to help. Their ranks had dissolved decades ago, but Siobhan and her group—Beth, Helena, and Scott—were still determined to offer aid to those in need.

I'm still not sure what they saw in me. Maybe they were just desperate. Or maybe Newton was just that damn cute. Either way, when I said (not even understanding what I was getting myself into) that I would help them clear the Raiders out of the Museum of Freedom, they trusted me. Just like they trusted me when I led them back to Sanctuary and invited them to build their settlement. Just like they trusted me to fly the flag of the Minutemen, and spread the word of their return.

Together, we stood on common ground: we were adrift, searching for some sense of stability in the world; wanting to help and _be_ helped. And maybe that's what we all wanted, at the end of the day, but as far as I've seen in the year since I've woken, there's no ulterior motives with the Minutemen. Unlike other groups I've encountered, there's no hidden agenda. All they want is to make the Commonwealth safe.

In exchange for all the work I'd done for her, Siobhan was adamant about helping me find Sarah and Kira. She led me to the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth: Diamond City, and even directed me to city's most renowned private investigator, Art Bell.

Art quickly became a friend. He was a little rough around the edges, slow to admit he cared, but he was dependable and steadfast in his conviction. It was no secret he was the very best at what he did. Even so, he had one hell of a time coming up with leads for Sarah and Kira. Every time it seemed we were making progress, we'd stumble upon some new, complicated piece of information that set us back once again. Ultimately, Art was certain he'd found the guy who kidnapped them—a scar-faced mercenary known simply as Rudy.

And, much to our dismay, Rudy was very, very good at making himself invisible. His trail had gone cold months ago; however, we'd gone snooping around enough of his old haunts to figure out who he'd been working for.

" _What do you know about the Institute, Cosima?"_ I was sitting in an armchair in Art's office, tucked away in one of Diamond City's seedy back alleys. Without question, he poured me a glass of vodka. I glanced at Beth, who was leant up against the wall. She'd taken to traveling with Newton and I often, while Siobhan hung back at Sanctuary to oversee operations.

" _I know that we don't like them."_

Beth snorted. Art, as usual, remained stoic. _"That's an understatement."_

Sighing, I took a sip of my vodka. The Commonwealth's general consensus of the Institute far surpassed a simple _dislike._ The average citizen abhorred the Institute, and I could understand why. They'd had a long history of kidnapping people and replacing them with synthetic copies. For what reason they'd done this, nobody really understood. A social experiment, I assumed. The third generation synths were so advanced they were indistinguishable from their human counterparts. They bled, they hungered, they had emotions and thoughts—pre-programmed, of course. But if you weren't looking hard enough, you'd never really know the difference. Which was the scary part, really, because their capacity for destruction transcended that of any human.

First generation synths were easy to spot. They weren't trying to be anything but machines. I had encountered a few during my travels. They were no better than drones, in my opinion. Their only purpose was to kill.

Art himself was a second gen. It was a fact he'd never made any attempt to hide. Most of his body was covered in skin, but half his face and his entire left hand had been left uncovered, revealing the machinery beneath. Some steered clear of him for this reason. But from what I could see, he was one of the calmest, most complacent men I'd ever met. He'd defend himself when attacked, but he'd never unload his mag without reason.

While Art had been a creation of the Institute, he was more wary of them than most, which I considered a testament to my suspicion. Having been a scientist in my previous life, I had to admit to some interest in what they were _capable_ of doing; but that same reason also caused me to take greater offense to the misuse of their ingenuity. They could likely heal the Commonwealth, if they wished. Instead, they'd done nothing but engender fear.

" _Rudy ran with his own gang, back in the day. But he's been under the Institute's employ for decades now."_

I swallowed, throat tightening. It wasn't hard to read between the lines. _"So, we find the Institute, we find Sarah and Kira, you're saying."_

Beth laughed incredulously, taking a sip from her own glass. _"You say that like it's easy."_

" _I didn't say it was easy,"_ I corrected. _"Just simple."_

"No one _knows where the Institute is, Cos. Let alone how to get in."_

" _I bet Rudy does,"_ I said hopefully, turning back to Art. _"So, if we find him…"_

Art scrubbed at his chin thoughtfully. _"One would assume. But we've got a few more leads to pick up if we intend for that to happen."_

" _Hey, you're the best in the biz, Art."_ I smiled crookedly, canting my glass towards him. _"There's always leads to be found."_

One would assume.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major thanks to all who commented! I'm glad you guys are digging this : )


	3. The Wanderer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this makes up for the exposition bomb last chapter. Thanks for reading, d00ds.

_October, 2288_

I remember exactly when the dreams started.

It was shortly after the Minutemen had taken back their base at Fort Independence. Years earlier, the castle had been overrun by mirelurks—hideous, crablike creatures bloated with radiation. When we marched past the walls last spring, a mirelurk queen had chosen the site as her nesting ground. It had taken several missiles to bring her down, and even after she'd fallen, we'd spent days clearing hidden egg clutches from the fortress.

It had been a big move—transporting our heavy equipment from Sanctuary to Fort Independence—but we were safer behind the walls. There we had cannons; a fully stocked armory; and an exceptionally large power grid, already wired. Once we moved in, we built our radio beacon, and Scott was able to air a constant transmission to the people of the Commonwealth, letting them know where they could find help.

Our ranks were growing. We had a healthy, hard-working community, and seemed to be picking up new allies every day. We had food, water, electricity. I was even granted private quarters, beside the General's. While my search for Sarah and Kira had come to something of a standstill, I was making enough of a difference with the Minutemen to distract myself from that fact. For the first time since I woke, life seemed okay.

_I_ was okay. Or, at least, I was until the dreams started.

* * *

I didn't know who she was.

I'd had relationships in the old world, but I was never one to pine, or grow overly attached. When I ended a relationship, it was always with certainty. I didn't look back on my paramours. I didn't long for them. I didn't second guess. Of course, I probably wasn't really in love with them either.

I wasn't sure what romantic love felt like. In the past, I'd felt familial love with an intensity and dedication that was startling. But it was difficult for me to muster that kind of affection for anyone that I wasn't related to.

But this woman—when I saw her in my dreams, I _felt_ her. She would brush her fingertips across my hand, or my cheek, and I would wake with the sparks still prickling my skin. When she would look at me, lips slightly parted, eyes soft and hooded, I could feel the warmth blossoming in my cheeks. My chest would tighten and expand, as if I'd swallowed a mouthful of sunbeams. I was, I think, in love.

I would wake, and for a split second, all was as it had been. There weren't the cruel distinctions of _Before_ and _After_. There were no bombs. There were no mutants, or synths, or radiation crazed ghouls. There was just me: intelligent, content, and eager to live.

And her, of course.

But then reality would come crashing down again, with such swiftness that I thought my lungs would collapse under the weight. My bed would be empty, and I would be stumbling out of my cryo pod all over again—dazed and despairing. Alone.

That might have been okay if it had only happened once. But almost immediately, it was a couple nights a week. And then every single night. And then even after I had woken—an image conjured out of the corner of my eye—perhaps while I was harvesting crops on a summer's day, or patrolling the walls at night. I told myself it was psychosomatic. It was hard _not_ to think of someone so beautiful, after all. But I knew how I felt, and I knew it was more than that.

I was in love with a stranger, and she was most certainly going to be the death of me.

That morning, 355 days after I'd woken from cryo, she came to me, sitting on the edge of my mattress. Sunshine poured in from the room's single window, suffusing her in a gauzy, white light. Blonde curls framing her face softly, she cupped my cheek in her hand and smiled.

" _I will never leave you,"_ she whispered—a promise.

I returned to consciousness with a quiet gasp, bracing myself against the routine misery of waking. Somewhat disoriented, I sat up in bed, casting the sheets from my body. I could see from the sun's position outside of my window that it was likely nearing noon. Unsurprising—Helena, Beth, and I hadn't returned from our scouting mission until dawn that morning. I wasn't yet feeling rested, but I couldn't justify spending another hour in bed either.

With a sigh, I pushed myself off my mattress, pulling on a pair of pants and a clean shirt. Splashing my face in the water basin along the far wall, I left the solitude of my quarters. I had to shield my eyes against the light as I walked out into the fort's concourse. Like most mornings, Scott was set up at the beacon terminal, tapping away at the keys without pause.

"Morning, Scotty," I called, sneaking up behind him.

He jumped slightly, whipping around in his seat with a flustered smile. "Oh, hey, Cosima. How'd the scout go last night?"

I shrugged. "Fairly routine. Cleared a swarm of ghouls out of a market down in the Commons. Brought home a nice rations haul." Grinning, my eyes lit up in recollection. "We found, like, ten boxes of sugar bombs."

"Seriously?" Scott's eyes sparkled in excitement. There were few things that excited him more than weapons and defense tech. Sugary pre-war cereals and comic books were perhaps his only greater loves. And though it wasn't often, I tried to bring them back for him whenever I could find them.

"Beth restocked the pantry when we got in this morning. If I were you, I'd get to them quick though. Helena had her eyes on them, too."

"Shit," he said, shaking his head. "She got up about an hour ago. Went straight down to the beach."

"Still looking for buried treasure?"

Scott stood, stretching out his back. "She's convinced there's a message in a bottle waiting for her again."

I smiled. "Beth up?"

"No way."

"That's good," I nodded. "She could use the rest."

"So could you," he reminded me.

"Sure, Mom." Scott rolled his eyes. "Hey, where's Siobhan at?"

He pointed up at the wall, to the garden. "Harvesting."

"Great." I clapped him on the shoulder. "Enjoy your Sugar Bombs, dude."

"Thanks, Cos."

On the east wall, the sun beat down fully. The perpetual nuclear summer left October balmy and bright. I rolled up my sleeves as I approached Siobhan, back bent over a basket of tatoes. A ripe, low-hanging mutfruit gleamed in the sunlight as I passed. I plucked it, rubbing off the dirt with my shirt.

"Good morning," I called, taking a bite of the mutfruit. A bit of juice dribbled down my chin. It wasn't comparable to the fresh fruit I'd buy at the old world markets—that had been sweeter, pulpier—but I'd grown accustomed to the bitterness. My mouth stung slightly at the explosion of semi-sweetness.

"Good afternoon," Siobhan corrected, looking back over her shoulder with a smile. "Get enough sleep?"

I tilted my head. There was never enough time for sleep. "Sure."

"Good," she began, standing to wipe the dirt from her pants, "because I have a job for you."

"Surprise, surprise." My sarcasm was evident, but I was smiling. None of us were ever really off the job, especially not Siobhan.

"Scott picked up a distress call this morning. National Guard barracks about fifteen miles northwest of Revere Beach Station. I'll have him forward the location to your pipboy."

"All right," I began tentatively, awaiting more details. "What're we dealing with—Raiders, ghouls?" I frowned. "Super Mutants?"

Siobhan met my eyes. "Synths."

"Oh." We did not encounter synths often; and when we did, their motivations were always unclear, their intent deadly. There was no speaking with a synth, no interrogating. Naively, however, I still hoped that even a ruthless, chance encounter might offer me some insight into the Institute, and my family's whereabouts. "I suppose we'll take extra ammo then."

"And heavier artillery." She wiped off her hands, picking up her basket.

"I'll round up Helena and Beth again—"

"One of them can stay behind," Siobhan quickly interjected. "I'm going to join you."

My brow furrowed. Siobhan rarely joined us on our missions. She was a generation older—battle-worn and scarred. Five years ago, she'd sustained some muscle damage in her right leg after it had been pierced with shrapnel. The wound had healed, but her leg had not. She would limp for the rest of her life.

I knew why she insisted on coming along though. I was particularly sensitive when a mission contained even the suggestion of Institute involvement. While I had not been among the Minutemen ranks nearly as long as some of the others, Siobhan had grown especially protective of me. In case anything went wrong today, she'd likely want to be there, to reign me in.

I bristled at this realization slightly. I was obstinate, but also capable. Since escaping 111, I'd rapidly grown to be an adept fighter—a sharpshooter, even. I was light on my feet and quick to draw, in addition to being tactically perceptive in a firefight. I could handle myself against a pack of synths, emotions notwithstanding.

Still, it was a comfort to be looked out for, worried over. Sarah and I had lost our parents years before the bombs fell. Until I met Siobhan, I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be mothered.

"That's not necessary, you know."

She smirked. "None of this is, Chicken. But we do it anyway." She patted me on the shoulder as she passed. "I suppose we're stubborn like that."

* * *

There were pros and cons to scavenging government buildings.

Con: they were armed to the teeth. And while they'd been abandoned for centuries, a clever hacker would still be able to infiltrate the system and power up the defenses. At one time, these safeguards had been cutting edge—they were durable and effective. A good turret or sentry bot, when rebooted, would fire with the same intensity as it might have before the bombs, mowing down anything in its path.

Pro: if you were skilled enough to take down these defenses (and there were few remaining who were), the loot inside was invaluable. Guns, ammo, grenades, and military grade-chems—they were yours for the taking, if you didn't end up in pieces along the way.

Someone—or some _thing,_ more likely—had rebooted the barracks' defenses, so that we were forced to take cover over a hundred yards out. By the time we arrived, the sun had long since set, draping us in an advantageous darkness. We planned to attack by stealth, each taking point near the various turrets lining the training yard. After taking them out, we'd regroup in the center to draw out the sentries.

We could only assume that the synths would see us coming from a mile away, and with turrets exploding left and right, they'd have their guns aimed the second Beth and I charged through the front. Siobhan, in a bid to keep off her feet, would enter through the back, sniper ready. I was concerned for her, but she'd at least have Newton by her side to ward off any surprises.

The plan was straightforward, but also risky. We'd all be vulnerable. But such was life in the Commonwealth. You couldn't enter a building without running the risk of taking a bullet between the eyes, no matter how well-armed or heavily-armored you might be. The worst injury of my life had been sustained while I'd been wearing power armor. The irony had not eluded me.

We knew how synths operated though. They were dogged and steadfast in completing a mission, but they were also vulnerable to spontaneity. It sounded silly, but if we moved erratically and caused enough ruckus, they were likely to become confused. And once they were confused, we could easily pick off a leg or an arm, which would slow them drastically, and allow us enough time to beat back the horde. It wasn't the most sophisticated tactic, but it had proven effective in the past.

Gen-One synths were nothing if not consistent. They far outnumbered us as we entered, but they predictably stuck to their formation. While it was slow going, we were able to take them down one by one, mostly without issue. At one point, I narrowly avoided taking a hit from one of the synths hidden up on the second floor. The shot from its laser pistol landed about an inch shy of my right shoulder; but the heat from the shot managed to leave a gash in my pauldron. That was the danger of thermal weapons—they didn't need to hit to leave a mark.

I sacked the few husks nearest my position for thermal cartridges. No matter the circumstances, I always had to consider the needs of the Minutemen. Precious ammo couldn't be left behind. If we didn't take it, a raider, or even a super mutant might. I preferred it in our hands.

"Helena and I can come back and run a full sweep in the next couple of days," Beth reminded me. "Pull up the signal, and let's move."

"Got it," I nodded, my gaze searching for Siobhan. She was slinking through the shadows, Newton trailing behind as she walked the perimeter. "Good?" I called, awaiting an answer.

"Main hall—cleared."

Satisfied that we were all uninjured, I pulled up the distress signal on my pipboy. "Coming in at 84%. We're close," I alerted the others as Siobhan came to stand by my side.

She slung her rifle over her back, hand resting instead on the revolver holstered at her hip. "It's almost guaranteed there's a bunker in the basement. Or at the very least, a locked armory. If whoever sent this signal is smart, that's where they'll be."

"How often do we get to save the smart ones, S?" Beth asked, eliciting a snort from the older woman.

"Well, in any case, I want you two to clear whatever's left on the second floor. I'll sweep through these side rooms, make sure there's no stragglers."

"You sure?" I inquired, knowing I was guilty of exactly what Siobhan had done to me earlier. I couldn't help but worry though.

Patting Newton's head, Siobhan smirked wryly and pulled the revolver from its holster. "I think I'll be all right."

"Okay," I acquiesced. "I don't suppose we should waste any time then."

There weren't many leftovers to pick off. Like most single-objective adversaries, synths were susceptible to noise—they couldn't help but flock to it. There were always a few however, lagging behind in an attempt to take us by surprise.

Once we'd cleared the ground and second floors, we made our way down to the basement. As expected, there was a gated armory—empty of captives; but there was also an emergency vault along the far wall. During her sweep, hacking into the terminal of one long-dead Sgt. Major Tompkins had granted Siobhan the key code we would require to enter. Before we could even consider that, however, there was also the small matter of the synth horde blocking the entrance.

"Enemy lifeforms detected," we heard upon entrance.

"Duck," Siobhan hissed.

The room was much smaller than the rest of the building, and cover was sparse. Beth and Siobhan hid behind a stack of crates and dusty equipment while I, short on time with shots already firing, took cover behind a pillar.

"Fucking hell," I muttered, allowing my eyes to close for a moment. To some degree, high-risk situations such as these, though unavoidable, were impossible to become fully accustomed to. All I could do was take a deep breath, peek around the pillar, fire, and hope for the best. My aim was dead-on when I could afford the seconds to line up a shot, but the battery of thermal energy presently flying towards my head made it impossible to do so.

I soon realized, however, that my current job was not to kill synths. My job was to act as bait.

"Cosima—can you hold out?" Siobhan called out over the roar of gunfire.

"I think—" The concrete exploded just an inch shy of my right ear—another near miss that left my head swimming. "On second thought," I shouted, glancing over at my companions, "you might want to hurry."

"We're trying," Beth assured me.

It all happened quickly. I dared to peek around the pillar again, sending out an aimless barrage of shots, and more than half the horde had already fallen. Just as I was pulling my head back in, something caught my attention—a shimmer of dull light, rippling in the open air near Beth and Siobhan's cover. I wanted to dismiss it, but as I peeked out again, that slight glimmer took corporeal shape.

"Courser," I shouted, my heart rocketing in newfound alarm. "Coming your way!"

Coursers were an elite class of synths—assassins enhanced with precise aim and effortless, brute strength. We had only encountered them twice before, and both occasions had left scars.

"I don't see it," Beth called back, sounding concerned.

"It's in stealth—" Another explosion erupted by my side, causing me to jump away. "Goddamnit," I muttered. Here, I had a choice. The courser was approaching, and Beth and Siobhan were still focused on the remaining synths. I could continue to be safe and useless, or I could throw myself into the fray and tip the scales.

I could die, too; but there was always the potential for that.

"Here goes nothing..." I charged out from my cover, sending out a few stray bullets, and lunged for that telltale shimmer I knew to be the courser—something I'd never had the opportunity or the lapse in judgment to do before. It was like running full tilt into a tree. The courser fell off balance, returning to visibility, but I had to assume that was more due to surprise than impact.

Immediately, my shoulder began to throb; but I didn't have time to dwell on it. Synths were still shooting, Beth and Siobhan were hollering at me, and Newton was howling in stress. The courser looked down on me, ever stoic, and I realized just how stupid I was. Still, I did not delay in pressing the muzzle of my gun into his abdomen and holding down the trigger.

Sparks flew. The courser was stymied by my tactics—damaged—but still quite alive. As the trigger clicked, clip empty, I scrambled for the secondary pistol strapped to my thigh, giving the courser just enough of an opening to lift me off the floor by my collar and send me sailing across the room like a ragdoll. My left arm and side clipped the pillar I'd been hiding behind just seconds before, causing me to skitter helplessly across the floor, my head bouncing off the concrete. I came to a stop as I rolled into the armory gate, my entire body erupting in pain.

"Fuck," I coughed, looking up to see the courser ambling towards me with a menacing indifference. Siobhan took aim at him while Beth focused on the last synths. They were shouting, I think, but my ears were ringing too loudly for me to discern. The courser stumbled, and Newton seized the opening, leaping over the crates to pounce on the assassin. His jaw locked immediately around a calf, bringing the already weakened synth to his knees.

It was in this moment, as the courser kneeled, stationary, readying to take a swing at Newton, that Siobhan landed a perfect shot to the back of his head. There was a small explosion of wires and alloy, as the assassin fell motionless, the last of his compatriots hitting the floor just seconds later.

For a moment, all was quiet, save for the ringing in my ears. My eyes began to drift shut of their own accord.

"Cosima!" I snapped back into consciousness, dazed and nauseated. Siobhan knelt in front of me, pulling me into a sit against the gate, Newton whining beside her. Beth leaned over me, already pulling a stimpack from her belt. Uncapping it, she injected me swiftly in the side while Siobhan held the back of my head. The relief was nearly instant, beating the pain back into the recesses of my mind. I groaned.

"I think I might puke," I slurred.

"That's fine," Siobhan said, voice stern. "Beth, go take care of the vault, please. Make sure whoever is in there is still alive." The other woman nodded, glancing at me once more before complying. Once she was out of earshot, and out of my line of vision, the castigation began. "What in the hell were you thinking?" Siobhan hissed, voice lowered. "Do you know how easily you could have died? My god—" She glanced down at my battered form, shaking her head. "You're a bloody fool."

"I just got a little—" I coughed, my ribs aching dully. "—impatient."

Siobhan's jaw squared. "I swear, Cosima, if you weren't already on the verge of concussion, I would _smack_ the patience into you." Unable to help myself, I chuckled. Siobhan pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing heavily. "Such an idiot," she muttered. After a moment, she smiled slightly. I smirked, my eyes closing.

There were muffled voices across the room, though I was too exhausted to turn my head. After a moment, I could distinctly hear Beth coming closer. "Here, come meet them." Siobhan stood. "Hey, it's all right. We're all friendly." In spite of the throbbing in my head, my curiosity got the better of me. Seeing as I'd just risked my neck for this stranger, I at least wanted to see their face.

Glancing up, my heart nearly stopped.

She was standing behind Beth, blonde curls mussed, hazel eyes wide: the very same woman that had haunted my dreams for the past four months. Looking right at me, she opened her mouth, as if to speak.

In a stupor, the words, _"I will never leave you"_ —the promise she'd made to me in a dream that same morning—fell almost silently from my mouth.

And just like that, the world went black.


End file.
